Tuesday, 20 November 2012

I find that Google is very hard on Blogspot blogs. For some reason they favour other formats rather than their own when doing the PR update. I haven't tried Wordpress but I have a site on Over-blog and, also, I have a lot of Tumblrs. My non-Blogspot blogs shoot up in PR very quickly. They penalize Blogspot probably because of all of the spam under that domain. My site 'auto-ugly.blogspot.com' is one that I don't update regularly. So I fell from PR2 to 1. One solution is to get a free CO.NR redirection and use it as your address for SEO. It will attain PR much quicker as Google sees the xxx.co.nr address as a .com domain.

Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Walter Tinsdale fell in love with the AMC Spirit. A wonderful motor car! It was economical, powerful-looking, and spacious: He wished that he could fill it up with all of the corduroy suits he saw here in 1980 and drive it back to the year 2312. But God probably wouldn't allow it: He preferred Walter to buy his suits at PriceNice like everybody else.

What had happened is that back in 14th century France God and Satan had gotten into a huge argument. It was a great (almost theological debate) between good and evil. What they were talking about went way over Walter's head and the topic isn't really something that mere mortals should even contemplate. They had started going on about old VHS tapes that they had and were currently engaged in a row over who the greatest actor of the 20th century was: God said Marlon Brando and Satan said James Woods.

Walter was glad to get away from that verbal onslaught. Before they could question his opinion he had asked God if he could go check out 1980 and, with a, 'Zap!' he was there.

Now Walter was at an auto dealer checking out the cars.

The reason that he had chosen 1980 as opposed to 1945 or 2000 is because in 1980 corduroy suits were all the rage. If there was one thing that people loved in 2312 it was a good corduroy suit.

Walter sat behind the wheel of the AMC Spirit with a salesman smiling in the passenger seat beside him. He briefly nodded in appreciation at the man's brown corduroy suit and then surveyed the dashboard.

Salesman: "And this is one of the most fuel efficient cars built in America. So do you want to take it for a spin?"

Walter's eyes lit up. To actually drive a car in 1980 was something that he thought he could only dream about. "Okay," he said, expecting that there was some kind of catch.

The Salesman waited for him to turn the engine on.

Walter cleared his throat and then said loudly: "Computer, turn engine on."

Nothing happened.

The salesman stared at him for a moment. He broke out into laughter: "So, you must be some kind of Star Trek fan?"

Walter said slowly: "Star...Trek? What's that?"

* * *

Meanwhile, at the convenient store Gary was bracing himself for what Vince had called the 7 o'clock rush. He had not seen a customer in three hours and people were waking up now and would soon enter to fulfill their purchasing needs. He peered out the window and saw three people walking quickly towards the store. Gary sat down behind the cash register and prepared himself.

The first person to reach the counter was a 30-year-old woman. She politely said, "Hello." And then: "I'd like a burger and some fries."

Gary clenched his fists and tried to remain calm. He understood that there would be other customers beyond this one. In an annoyed tone he said: "This isn't a fast food restaurant; it's a convenient store."

At this point the woman burst into laughter. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Gary clenched his fists harder. Finally, she said: "Oh okay, I guess I'll need some time to figure out my order."

She stepped aside. The next person in line was a clean shaven 25-year-old man. Gary was relieved because this guy looked normal.

This customer said, "I'd like Defacto filterless cigarettes."

Gary happily handed him a pack of smokes.

The man quickly picked up a donation box on the counter and dumped its contents infront of of him: Pennies and dimes went everywhere.

Clenching his fists even harder, Gary asked, "What are you doing?"

The man shrugged. "I'm paying."

Gary angrily said, "That's donated money for the disabled."

Again the man shrugged: "I'm disabled."

Gary's face was red as he shouted, "You are not disabled!"

"Am too!"

"Are not!"

"Am too!"

"Are not!"

Now the woman stepped back toward the counter and asked, "Can I get a cheeseburger?"

Gary was trembling: "No you can't get a cheeseburger. I want both of you out of this store. Now."

The two slowly left contemplating whether they should get the last word in. Before leaving the man shouted out, "Give in to the needs of the disabled!"

Now Gary noticed the third customer. He was a tall white-haired man who moved like a jelly fish. His arms were constantly flailing about as if they were boneless. The man spoke very slowly in a high-pitched tone: "Hello. I require your head."

Gary nodded knowing that he had misunderstood.

Now the man said, "Your head. Your head. I require your head."

Gary was dumbfounded.

After a pause the man tried a different tactic: "I am a diplomat from the Sarturus-Alphangeti star system."

Gary slowly reached for the baseball bat that Vince had left behind the counter.

"You see one of our agents left little Draxos in your coffee cup and you swallowed him. So give us your head so that we can obtain his cells and regenerate him."

Scared, the man made his way to the door shrieking, "The police? The police? What are the police going to do with your head? I need your head!" As he reached the door he warned: "Don't make me call in little Draxos' mother. There'll be trouble for you if I have to resort to that."

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Re: Spam comments being left in the comments section of Blogspot blogs.

It has come to my attention that a spammer has left a message on one of my blog posts. It read: When the temperature starts to drop, and that very particular chill starts to hit the Canada goose parka, it's time to break out that winter coat... And goes on from there. It was well-written and 200 words long! I had never known a spammer to have such a diligent comprehension of the English language. Usually they embark on offers to make $100 a day, how they are a Nigerian princess, or how they are selling a pill that works more effectively than Viagra at a lower price. Their arguments to try to get me to buy something fill me with a certain sense of anxiety; schadenfreude; maybe depression; something that I could only describe to you in person by making several whirly-twirly swinging type motions.

Spam on Blogspot blogs should be considered a form of vandalism and it saddens me. I expected this sort of thing on Wordpress, or Typepad, maybe even Over-blog, but not on Blogspot.

If I knew a professor of sociology personally, I'm sure that he would blame the various causes of this on the remnants of, 'post-modern pseudo-intellectual neo-socialist, neo-conservative, neo-everything else finger paintings on the wall' being sadly in decline. Or, maybe if I did know a professor of sociology personally, he'd have something really funny to say. Or maybe he'd go on about the situation in northern Manitoba, contemplate a Glen Gould masterpiece, or actually buy one of those winter coats that the spammer was selling.

But because of this particular spam message, I have decided to become a nihilist. It was either that, Zen Buddhism, or head westward in a whirly-twirly swinging type motion. I no longer care where spammers comment: Whether it's here, there, or anywhere else. This interdepartmental memo between us bloggers should clear this whole sorry mess up. If it doesn't, I threaten to squeeze my fists into my eyeballs and pretend that I am in a Broadway musical.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Meanwhile, in a different part of the space-time continuum, it was 1980. Jimmy Carter was President, 'Threes Company' was a popular TV show, and corduroy suits weren't ever going to go out of style.
In an average 24-hour convenient store it was 4 A.M. A large, bald, lonely man sat behind the counter drinking coffee. His name was Vince...

Vince McAber slowly, but diligently, peered over the tarnished white rim of his coffee cup. He had indeed seen it. Something in the murky black liquid had moved!

Swish...Splash! Yes, there it was again!

Little did Vince McCaber know (and he did know very little) was that right in front of him, in the depths of his putrid java, life had evolved. And even littler did he know that this life form, which had been accelerated to its current form by super intelligent aliens, was to one day grant man a higher path of awareness and metaphysical knowledge.

"Oh well, hope it doesn't taste any different," Vince muttered, shrugging. And with that he held the cup up to his face, turning it more and more as he gulped and gulped and gulped and then chewed.
Vince thought that he had heard a small, high-pitched scream when he had chewed. It had tasted a little like marinaded chicken with brown sauce. Licking his lips, he sat back and hoped that whatever it was that he just swallowed didn't give him gas.

* * *

Gary Gimbart had held three different high paying jobs in the past six months. At the height of his careers, he had been an internationally renowned criminal attorney. But then that came to an end when six men in white coats were holding him down as he screamed something about Jimmy Carter, 'Threes Company,' and the longevity of corduroy suits. After that he had been a biochemist for a leading marine harvesting firm but, as the conclusion to what happened there involves a jar of Miracle Whip and several sticks of celery, it won't be mentioned here.

Nothing ever worked out for Gary Gimbart.

He had a feeling that things wouldn't change as he made his way into an average 24-hour convenient store at 4 A.M. Gary needed to satisfy an excruciating urge for the saltiest potato chips he could find and possibly, if he liked the working conditions, apply for a job.

He now stood infront of the counter behind of which sat a man who was mumbling something about marinaded chicken with brown sauce as he peered into an empty coffee cup. Gary was in awe as this individual was so ugly that it was indescribable. He was fat, bald, and just had an aura of supreme unattractiveness about him. Gary was about to look away when the attendant noticed him standing there.

Like a dying bass, Vince peered at Gary and then suddenly recoiled in disgust: "Oh God, you're disgusting!"

"What? What?" Gary shrieked, wondering what could be so bad about his own appearance that a man who seemed to think that personal hygiene and grooming was a thing for parliament and very important barbecues, would be disgusted.

"Nothing!" Vince squinted, grading the severity of the horror and then, out of pity, looked away. "Nothing at all."

Gary plodded his face with his hands, trying to find something that may have grown, bled, or fallen off. He was a very average looking man with brown, curly hair, matching eyes, and a bristly moustache.

Coincidentally, what Gary didn't know was something that Vince knew even littler of. Aside from having tasted like marinaded chicken with brown sauce, the second ramification of swallowing the advanced being was that Vince's body was now utilizing the near magical tissues, creating superhuman abilities with some strange side-effects. For the next 72 minutes (62 in Newfoundland and Labrador) Vince would have extremely sensitive yet deranged vision. And furthermore, this ability would return every 24 hours (Except on Sundays when the following Monday is a civic holiday). What all of this meant is that when Vince looked up and saw Gary's face, he was not seeing it as you or I would, but he saw Gary as if he were an advanced being from the Sarturus-Alphangeti star system, sent here to help humankind along its evolutionary path... Which, apparently, isn't very pretty (unless Larry King wearing a sombrero and speedo swimming briefs is your idea of pretty).

"Anyway," said Gary, trying to change the subject. "I'm looking for a job."

Vince looked relieved. "Really? That's great: When the boss hired me he didn't tell me that we're open 24-hours a day and that I'm the only employee. I've got to go home: I'm tired."

Saturday, 18 February 2012

Romney, Santorum, and Gingrich all want to ban hard-core porn
But doesn't that mean banning the internet?
What will guys watch when they drink beer in their dorm?
This policy of theirs is really a bad bet

Hark! I need the net
I don't want to live like it's 1983
So now I do fret
I need my Twitter and Youtube because it's all free

And I also need my hardcore porn
Most of that's also free
But sometimes you have to pay for the really good stuff
Still there's a lot to see

So don't vote for any of those three
Or they'll take away all of the really good films
And wasn't it John Stuart Mills
Who said we should watch whatever we want
Unless it stars your ugly old aunt.

Friday, 10 February 2012

'Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.'
-Emile M. Cioran.

God took a drag of His cigar, looked disgusted and threw it on the ground. He then stepped on it to make sure that it was out. Just then a heard of a hundred zebras ran by. Walter had never seen zebras before but, he pretended not to be amazed: God was always into theatrics and He was just showing off again.

"Here, let me show you something,' He said, touching Walter's shoulder. With a zap they were travelling through a golden abyss. Now they stood in 14th century France.

Walter liked this part of knowing God personally: Sometimes He took him on field trips.

Poor but happy townspeople ran around dressed in the muddy colours of the time. These clothes were a likely match for their hygiene as none looked like they had ever bathed. Walter tried holding his breath.

"Ah," said God, happily. "We've arrived during a harvest festival." Motioning toward the people, He continued: "You see this is what it was all about. When I created the earth I had exactly this in mind. But then you people had to go and invent technology. The light bulb, the gasoline car, the atomic bomb, the internet, the hyper-internet, the hyper-internet with extra spandex, the nuclear powered spaceship, the nuclear powered spaceship with flux capacitors, nuclear powered spaceships with flux capacitors and extra spandex. Why, oh why, did I ever let you people invent spandex?"

Walter sighed as God continued with His list: "The extra big space elevator, the space elevator that went all the way to Mars, the interstellar cannon that misfired and destroyed the elevator to Mars." He paused, thinking. "Did I miss anything?"

Walter sighed and suggested: "Narfenuggen."

God scowled. "Oh, yes: Narfenuggen."

Narfenuggen wasn't an advertising campaign by Volkswagen to compliment Fahrvergnugen. It was a light blue jelly substance which was used as a replacement for coal. It burned at twice the temperature, was cheap to produce, and did not give off any emissions at all. It was used to generate electricity for years but, it was too good to be true: The artificial slime began to evolve and soon gained intelligence and feelings. Before it could react to anything, it realized that man had created it for one reason: To set on fire. This gave Narfenuggen a special contempt for humans. As the blue slime multiplied itself engulfing cities, people had no choice but to flee to nearby planets and space stations, and then nuke their original home from above. The earth (and the Narfenuggen) was set on fire with atomic explosions.

"Narfenuggen," God repeated, shaking His head. "Even I didn't see that one coming."

Suddenly there was a bright flame which transformed itself into a figure: A man who looked a lot like Milton Berle: Satan had arrived. He, too, pulled out a cigar. Lighting it, he acted surprised to see God and Walter. "Hey God," he said, approaching. "Are you still going on about Narfenuggen?"
God scowled again. Walter winced as he sensed an argument coming on.

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

'The heavens and Earth are mingling
God oh God, what have we done?
Even the forest beasts cry out
Under the forgotten sun.'

-Lord Byron.

Walter Tinsdale gazed across the gray expanse of land. Upstate New York was not the green pastures of Mars or the tropical beaches of Venus. Only squirrels lived in this desolate wasteland and they scurried about searching for food nowhere to be found in this parched place. He smiled at one as it timidly approached hoping that he had brought something to eat.

'Squirrel' was Walter's word for cockroach. Of course he had never seen a real life squirrel and only knew of them from 300-year-old nature films. None the less 'squirrel' was a much nicer name for these lively little things than 'roach.'

He watched as several 'squirreled' around before being sucked away by a small whirlwind of methane. He stepped back: Those whirlwinds were an annoyance. He had spent 20 minutes twirling around in one before. This time he had his jet-pack on over his silver astronaut suit so that he could surely navigate out of any of harm's way. He wasn't going to make that mistake again and be left in the middle of nowhere where he'd have to page a taxi droid for a lift back to the dome.

Now it started raining. Slow at first but he could tell it would soon become a torrential downpour. It wasn't raining rain drops, mind you: It was cans of tuna again. Walter sighed realizing the hover-bots would have a day's work ahead of them picking up all of PriceNice's wayward cargo.

It had long been ascertained that the safest and most efficient way to travel through outer space was by cannon. This applied to both humans and the PriceNice Corporation's products and produce. Everything that came to Earth from the Moon, Mars, or Venus was fired through a giant muzzle. And PriceNice wasn't always too careful aiming the cans of tuna. People, pistachio nuts, or corduroy suits had to be aimed just right to enter the earth's atmosphere by way of the huge funnel that was built towering above the clouds to catch everything shot this way. The tuna had missed the target and haplessly slid off to become rain: A common occurance.

He heard a voice that he wasn't expecting and grimaced because he hated being snuck up on: "Hey Walter, why don't you take off that space suit and join me for a cup of coffee?"

He sighed as he recognized the figure but approached as he liked coffee.

It was God.

The thing that most people don't realize about God is that He never manifests Himself as a burning bush or a huge white-haired man in a robe; instead He looks a lot like Groucho Marx. On that day, meeting Walter, He was even smoking the same brand of cigars.

Walter did not mind God all that much but, sometimes he found Him mildly annoying. It was nice that He made it possible for him to take off his suit and breathe the what would otherwise be toxic air. It was also nice that he was now holding what God described as a, 'rich Columbian dark roast.' But just as of late He was being increasingly argumentative about stuff.

About the artist...

My pen name is Lord Guy Chesterfield Montcalm Fulford the 4th and I am the greatest poet who ever lived. I named this blog, 'Terrible Poetry,' purely for satirical purposes. Oh yes, I also make eCards. Those suck - I admit.

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